"Will!"
He bit his lip. His hair was thick with snow, his lashes starred with flakes. "Was that too grand a statement? Did I frighten you? You know how I am with words--"
"Oh, I do."
"I recall what you said to me once," Will went on. "That words have the power to change us. Your words have changed me, Tess; they have made me a better man than I would have been otherwise. Life is a book, and there are a thousand pages I have not yet read. I would read them together with you, as many as I can, before I die--"
She put her hand against his chest, just over his heart, and felt its beat against her palm, a unique time signature that was all its own. "I only wish you would not speak of dying," she said. "But even for that, yes, I know how you are with your words, and, Will--I love all of them. Every word you say. The silly ones, the mad ones, the beautiful ones, and the ones that are only for me. I love them, and I love you."
Will began to speak, but Tessa covered his mouth with her hand.
"I love your words, my Will, but hold them for a moment," she said, and smiled into his eyes. "Think of all the words I have held inside all this time, while I did not know your intentions. When you came to me in the drawing room and told me that you loved me, it was the hardest thing I have ever done to send you away. You said you loved the words of my heart, the shape of my soul. I remember. I remember every word you said from that day to this. I will never forget them. There are so many words I wish to say to you, and so many I wish to hear you say to me. I hope we have all our lives to say them to each other."
"Then you will marry me?" Will said, looking dazed, as if he did not quite believe in his good fortune.
"Yes," she said--the last, the simplest, and most important word of all.
And Will, who had words for every occasion, opened his mouth and closed it on silence, and instead reached for her to pull her against him. Her wrap fell onto the stairs, but his arms were warm around her, and his mouth hot against hers as he slanted his head down to kiss her. He tasted like snowflakes and wine, like winter and Will and London. His mouth was soft against hers, his hands in her hair, scattering white berries across the stone steps. Tessa held fast to Will as the snow swirled around them. Through the windows of the Institute, she could hear the faint sound of the music playing in the ballroom: the pianoforte, the cello, and rising above it all, like sparks leaping toward the sky, the sweet, celebratory strains of the violin.
"I can't believe we're really going home," Cecily said. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and she was bouncing up and down in her white kid boots. She was bundled into a red winter coat, the brightest thing in the dark crypt except the Portal itself, great and silver and shining against the far wall.
Through it Tessa could catch a glimpse, like a glimpse in a dream, of blue sky (the sky outside the Institute was a spitting London gray) and snow-dusted hills. Will stood beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. He looked pale and nervous, and she longed to take his hand. "We're not going home, Cecy," he said. "Not to stay. We're visiting. I wish to introduce our parents to my fiancee"--and at that his pallor faded slightly, his lips curving into a smile--"that they might know the girl I am going to marry."
"Oh, pish tosh," said Cecily. "We can use the Portal to see them whenever we want! Charlotte is the Consul, so we cannot possibly get in trouble."
Charlotte groaned. "Cecily, this is a singular expedition. It is not a toy. You cannot simply use the Portal whenever you like, and this excursion must be kept a secret. None but we here can know you visited your parents, that I allowed you to break the Law!"
"I won't tell anyone!" Cecily protested. "And neither will Gabriel." She glanced at the boy at her side. "You won't, will you?"
"Why are we bringing him along, again?" Will inquired, of the world in general as well as his sister.
Cecily put her hands on her hips. "Why are you bringing Tessa?"
"Because Tessa and I are going to be married," Will said, and Tessa smiled; the way that Will's little sister could ruffle his feathers like no one else was still amusing to her.
"Well, Gabriel and I might well be married," Cecily said. "Someday."
Gabriel made a choking noise, and turned an alarming shade of purple.
Will threw up his hands. "You can't be married, Cecily! You're only fifteen! When I get married, I'll be eighteen! An adult!"
Cecily did not look impressed. "We may have a long engagement," she said. "But I cannot see why you are counseling me to marry a man my parents have never met."
Will sputtered. "I am not counseling you to marry a man your parents have never met!"
"Then we are in agreement. Gabriel must meet Mam and Dad." Cecily turned to Henry. "Is the Portal ready?"
Tessa leaned close to Will. "I do love the way she manages you," she whispered. "It is quite entertaining to watch."
"Wait until you meet my mother," Will said, and slipped his hand into hers. His fingers were cold; his heart must have been racing. Tessa knew he had been up all night. The idea of seeing his parents after so many years was as terrifying to him as it was joyful. She knew that admixture of hope and fear, infinitely worse than just one alone.
"The Portal is quite ready," said Henry. "And remember, in an hour I shall open it again, that you may return through it."
"And understand that this is just this once," Charlotte said anxiously. "Even if I am the Consul, I cannot allow you to visit your mundane family--"
"Not even at Christmas?" said Cecily, with large, tragic eyes.
Charlotte weakened visibly. "Well, perhaps Christmas ..."
"And birthdays," said Tessa. "Birthdays are special."
Charlotte put her hands over her face. "Oh, by the Angel."
Henry laughed, and swept an arm toward the door. "Go on through," he said, and Cecily went first, vanishing through the Portal as if she had stepped through a waterfall. Gabriel followed, and then Will and Tessa, holding tightly to each other's hands. Tessa concentrated on the warmth of Will's hand, the pulse of blood through his skin, as the cold and darkness took them, whirling them about for breathless, ageless moments. Lights burst behind her eyes, and she emerged from the darkness suddenly, blinking and stumbling. Will caught her to him, keeping her from falling.
They were standing on the wide curved drive in front of Ravenscar Manor. Tessa had seen the place only from above, when she and Jem and Will had visited Yorkshire together, not realizing that Will's family inhabited the house now. She recalled that the manor was held in the cup of a valley, with hills sweeping up on either side, covered in gorse and heather--patched now with a dusting of snow. The trees had been green then; they were leafless now, and from the dark slate roof of the manor hung sparkling icicles.
The door was dark oak, a heavy brass knocker set in the center. Will looked at his sister, who nodded minutely at him, then squared his shoulders and reached to lift and release it. The resultant crash seemed to echo through the valley, and Will swore under his breath.
Tessa touched his wrist lightly with her hand. "Be brave," she said. "It's not a duck, is it?"
He turned to smile at her, dark hair falling in his eyes, just as the door opened to reveal a neatly dressed parlor maid in a black dress and white mobcap. She took one look at the group on the doorstep, and her eyes widened like saucers.
"Miss Cecily," she gasped, and then her eyes went to Will. She clapped a hand over her mouth, turned, and bolted back into the house.
"Oh, dear," said Tessa.
"I have that effect on women," Will said. "I probably should have warned you before you agreed to marry me."
"I can still change my mind," Tessa said sweetly.
"Don't you dare--," he began with a breathless half laugh, and then suddenly there were people at the door--a tall man, broad-shouldered, with a mass of fair hair streaked with gray, and light blue eyes. Just behind him was a woman: slender and startlingly beautiful, with Will and Cecily's ink-black hair and blue eyes as dark as violets. She cried out th
e moment her gaze fell on Will, and her hands came up, fluttering like white birds startled by a gust of wind.
Tessa released Will's hand. He seemed frozen, like a fox when the hounds were almost on him. "Go on," Tessa said softly, and he stepped forward, and then his mother was embracing him, saying, "I knew you'd come back. I knew you would," followed by a torrent of Welsh, of which Tessa could discern only Will's name. Their father was stunned but smiling, holding out his arms for Cecily, who went into them as agreeably as Tessa had ever seen her do anything.
For the next few moments Tessa and Gabriel stood awkwardly on the doorstep, not quite looking at each other but not quite sure where else to look either. After a long moment Will drew away from his mother, patting her gently on the shoulder. She laughed, though her eyes were full of tears, and said something in Welsh that Tessa strongly suspected was a comment on the fact that Will was now taller than she was.
"Little mother," he said affectionately, confirming Tessa's suspicions, and he swung around just as his mother's gaze fell on Tessa, and then Gabriel, her eyes widening. "Mam and Dad, this is Theresa Gray. We are engaged to be married, next year."
Will's mother gave a gasp--though she sounded more surprised than anything else, to Tessa's relief--and Will's father's gaze went immediately to Gabriel, and then to Cecily, his eyes narrowing. "And who is the gentleman?"
Will's grin widened. "Oh, him," he said. "This is Cecily's--friend, Mr. Gabriel Lightworm."
Gabriel, half in the act of stretching out his hand to greet Mr. Herondale, froze in horror. "Lightwood," he sputtered. "Gabriel Lightwood--"
"Will!" Cecily said, breaking away from her father to glare at her brother.
Will looked at Tessa, his blue eyes shining. She opened her mouth to remonstrate with him, to say Will! as Cecily had just done, but it was too late--she was already laughing.
EPILOGUE
I say the tomb which on the dead is shut
Opens the Heavenly hall;
And what we here for the end of all things put
Is the first step of all.
--Victor Hugo, "At Villequier"
London, Blackfriars Bridge, 2008.
The wind was sharp, blowing grit and stray rubbish--crisps packets, stray pages of newspaper, old receipts--along the pavement as Tessa, glancing quickly from side to side to check for traffic, dashed across Blackfriars Bridge.
To any onlooker she would have looked like an ordinary girl in her late teens or early twenties: jeans tucked into boots, a blue cashmere top she'd gotten for half off during the January sales, and long brown hair, curling just a bit in the damp weather, tumbling haphazardly down her back. If they were particularly sharp-eyed about fashion, they would have assumed the paisley Liberty-print scarf she wore was a knockoff instead of a hundred-year-old original, and that the bracelet around her wrist was vintage, rather than a gift that had been given to her by her husband on their thirtieth wedding anniversary.
Tessa's steps slowed as she reached one of the stone recesses in the wall of the bridge. Cement benches had been built into them now, so that you could sit and look at the gray-green water below sloshing up against the bridge pilings, or at Saint Paul's in the distance. The city was alive with noise--the sounds of traffic: honking horns, the rumble of double-decker buses; the ringing of dozens of mobiles; the chatter of pedestrians; the faint sounds of music leaking from white iPod earbuds.
Tessa sat down on the bench, pulling her legs up under her. The atmosphere was shockingly clean and clear--the smoke and pollution that had rendered the air yellow and black when she had been a girl here were gone, and the sky was the color of a blue-gray marble. The eyesore that had been the Dover and Chatham railway bridge was gone too; only the pilings were still sticking up out of the water as an odd reminder of what had once been. Yellow buoys bobbed in the water now, and tourist boats chugged by, the amplified voices of tour guides blaring from their speakers. Buses as red as candy hearts sped by along the bridge, sending dead leaves fluttering to the curb.
She glanced down at the watch on her wrist. Five minutes to noon. She was a little early, but then she always was for this, their yearly meeting. It gave her a chance to think--to think and to remember, and there was no place better for doing either than here, on Blackfriars Bridge, the first place they had ever really talked.
Beside the watch was the pearl bracelet she always wore. She never took it off. Will had given it to her when they had been married thirty years, smiling as he'd fastened it on. He had had gray in his hair then, she knew, though she had never really seen it. As if her love had given him his own shape-shifting ability, no matter how much time had passed, when she looked at him, she saw always the wild, black-haired boy she had fallen in love with.
It still seemed incredible to her sometimes that they had managed to grow old together, herself and Will Herondale, whom Gabriel Lightwood had once said would not live to be older than nineteen. They had been good friends with the Lightwoods too, through all those years. Of course Will could hardly not be friends with the man who was married to his sister. Both Cecily and Gabriel had seen Will on the day he died, as had Sophie, though Gideon had himself passed away several years before.
Tessa remembered that day clearly, the day the Silent Brothers had said there was nothing more they could do to keep Will alive. He had been unable to leave their bed by then. Tessa had squared her shoulders and gone to give the news to their family and friends, trying to be as calm for them as she could, though her heart had felt as if it were being ripped out of her body.
It had been June, the bright hot summer of 1937, and with the curtains thrown back the bedroom had been full of sunlight, sunlight and her and Will's children, their grandchildren, their nieces and nephews--Cecy's blue-eyed boys, tall and handsome, and Gideon and Sophie's two girls--and those who were as close as family: Charlotte, white-haired and upright, and the Fairchild sons and daughters with their curling red hair like Henry's had once been.
All day Tessa had sat on the bed with Will beside her, leaning on her shoulder. The sight might have been strange to others, a young woman lovingly cradling a man who looked old enough to be her grandfather, her hands looped through his, but to their family it was only familiar--it was only Tessa and Will. And because it was Tessa and Will, the others came and went all day, as Shadowhunters did at a deathbed, telling stories of Will's life and all the things he and Tessa had done through their long years together.
The children had spoken fondly of the way he had always loved their mother, fiercely and devotedly, the way he had never had eyes for anyone else, and how their parents had set the model for the sort of love they hoped to find in their own lives. They spoke of his regard for books, and how he had taught them all to love them too, to respect the printed page and cherish the stories that those pages held. They spoke of the way he still cursed in Welsh when he dropped something, though he rarely used the language otherwise, and of the fact that though his prose was excellent--he had written several histories of the Shadowhunters when he'd retired that had been very well respected--his poetry had always been awful, though that had never stopped him from reciting it.
Their oldest child, James, had spoken laughingly about Will's unrelenting fear of ducks and his continual battle to keep them out of the pond at the family home in Yorkshire.
Their grandchildren had reminded him of the song about demon pox he had taught them--when they were much too young, Tessa had always thought--and that they had all memorized. They sang it all together and out of tune, scandalizing Sophie.
With tears running down her face, Cecily had reminded him of the moment at her wedding to Gabriel when he had delivered a beautiful speech praising the groom, at the end of which he had announced, "Dear God, I thought she was marrying Gideon. I take it all back," thus vexing not only Cecily and Gabriel but Sophie as well--and Will, though too tired to laugh, had smiled at his sister and squeezed her hand.
They had all laughed about his habit of taking T
essa on romantic "holidays" to places from Gothic novels, including the hideous moor where someone had died, a drafty castle with a ghost in it, and of course the square in Paris in which he had decided Sydney Carton had been guillotined, where Will had horrified passersby by shouting "I can see the blood on the cobblestones!" in French.
At the end of the day, as the sky had darkened, the family had come around Will's bed and kissed him each in turn and left one by one, until Will and Tessa were alone together. Tessa had lain down beside him and slid her arm beneath his head, and put her head on his chest, listening to the ever-weakening beat of his heart. And in the shadows they'd whispered, reminding each other of the stories only they knew. Of the girl who had hit over the head with a water jug the boy who had come to rescue her, and how he had fallen in love with her in that instant. Of a ballroom and a balcony and the moon sailing like a ship untethered through the sky. Of the flutter of the wings of a clockwork angel. Of holy water and blood.
Near midnight the door had opened and Jem had come in. Tessa supposed she should have thought of him as Brother Zachariah by then, but neither Will nor Tessa had ever called him that. He had come in like a shadow in his white robes, and Tessa had taken a deep breath when she had seen him, for she had known that this was what Will had been waiting for, and that the hour was now.
He did not come to Will at once, but crossed the room to a rosewood box that sat upon the top of the dresser. They had always kept Jem's violin for him, as Will had promised. It was kept clean and in order, and the hinges of the box did not creak as Jem opened it and lifted the instrument out. They watched as he rosined the bow with his familiar slim fingers, his pale wrists disappearing down into the paler material of the Brothers' parchment robes.
He lifted the violin to his shoulder then, and raised the bow. And he played.
Zhi yin. Jem had told her once that it meant understanding music, and also a bond that went deeper than friendship. Jem played, and he played the years of Will's life as he had seen them. He played two little boys in a training room, one showing the other how to throw knives, and he played the ritual of parabatai: the fire and the vows and the burning runes. He played two young men running through the streets of London in the dark, stopping to lean up against a wall and laugh together. He played the day in the library when he and Will had jested with Tessa about ducks, and he played the train to Yorkshire on which Jem had said that parabatai were meant to love each other as they loved their own souls. He played that love, and he played their love for Tessa, and hers for them, and he played Will saying, In your eyes I have always found grace. He played the too few times he had seen them since he had joined the Brotherhood--the brief meetings at the Institute; the time when Will had been bitten by a Shax demon and nearly died, and Jem had come from the Silent City and sat with him all night, risking discovery and punishment. And he played the birth of their first son, and the protection ceremony that had been carried out on the child in the Silent City. Will would have no other Silent Brother but Jem perform it. And Jem played the way he had covered his scarred face with his hands and turned away when he'd found out the child's name was James.
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